


Christmas Imperfect

by thegirlwhoknits



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sort of sad for a Christmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:21:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5563294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhoknits/pseuds/thegirlwhoknits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holed up in an apartment in Toulouse, Peter and Stiles remember absent friends and family at Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oh-pleiades](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=oh-pleiades).



> So, this is sort of short and sad... A lot of people in my life seem to be dealing with death this Christmas and I guess it kind of rubbed off. Sorry for the downer!

Peter poured himself a cup of lemon chamomile tea. He’d always hated it, which Laura said was because he steeped it too long. He’d had plenty of time to perfect the brewing of it since her death; this cup was perfect, the delicate aroma swirling up to tickle his nose.

He still hated it.

Setting the china cup on a side table, he pulled a bottle of whiskey and an ordinary glass tumbler out of the kitchen cabinet. The glass looked slightly grubby next to the collection of cut crystal that had come with the apartment. Peter would normally have selected a higher-quality glass—and whiskey, to be honest—but this was tradition. He set both glass and bottle next to the tea cup, and waited.

His tea was long cold before the door to the apartment softly opened and closed. Stiles entered the living room, shedding his coat and scarf and throwing them over the back of a chair. Today, Peter made no move to scold him or tidy them away; he simply nodded toward the whiskey and watched as his partner poured himself a glass.  “Is it done?”

“Yeah. Sorry it took longer than expected. My French is shit, and I keep getting turned around on these streets, thinking we’re still in Paris.” He dropped onto the sofa next to Peter and leaned his head briefly on the older man’s shoulder before taking a long, slow sip. “I know you love France, Peter, but next time can we go somewhere they speak English? I’m sure there’s lots of crime in Australia.”

“London might be nice in the spring,” Peter mused.

“Too high-profile. We’re still dodging the heat for that job in Cambridge, remember?” He tucked his feet up under him and nestled in the curve of Peter’s arm. They sat in silence for a few minutes, each sipping their own drink. “Allison sent a copy of my dad’s latest cholesterol test results. It looks like the new diet Melissa has him on his working.”

Peter hummed. “Derek and Cora invited us to come visit them in Argentina.”

“That might be nice. I’m sure Chris could find us a job nearby. He has a lot of contacts in South America.”

He set his cup down and looked at Stiles seriously. “Or we could just take a vacation,” he said. “Stiles. You have to stop running sometime. Scott wouldn’t want you to live like this forever.”

Stiles’ knuckles turned white around his glass. “Well, Scott’s dead, so it doesn’t really matter what he wants, does it? He’s rotting peacefully in the same ground as my mom and your niece, and I’m running from my own father, because he had to trust _everyone._ ”

“He never trusted me,” Peter said quietly, unable to keep his mouth shut even though they’d had this argument before.

Stiles snorted, then chuckled, then started shaking with hysterical laughter as the tumbler rolled out of his hand and across the floor. Peter patted his back and waited for him to calm down. Finally he sat back up. “No,” he gasped breathlessly. “No, he never did. And you’re the one who helped me bury the bastard he did trust.”

Neither of them spoke while Stiles got his breath back. “I just miss them, you know.”

“I do.”

Stiles picked his tumbler up from the floor and looked at it for a moment before leaning over and clinking it against the rim of the tea cup. “To absent friends,” he said.

“Gone but never forgotten,” Peter finished the little ritual they’d conducted every year for the past five. Abandoning talk of the future, they started sharing memories of Christmases past — and birthdays, summer vacations, ordinary moments. The light faded, and at some point Stiles pulled a blanket over the two of them. After a while, the conversation drifted for the first time, from the past to the future.

“We should have a tree next year,” Stiles said.

“What kind?” Peter asked indulgently, nuzzling against Stiles’ cheek and mulling over possibilities for dinner.

“I don’t know. What kind of trees do they have in Argentina?”


End file.
